


backyard full of dying flowers

by deathclub



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: (but mostly plot), Alternate Universe - College/University, Body Image, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Porn With Plot, Sex Work, Strangers to Lovers, but have no fear the queen of sadness is here to save the day, camboy! minghao, camboy!seokmin, seokhao are friends but also fwb but its never serious, theres a shortage of sad boy fics on here, this world needs more sad boy fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathclub/pseuds/deathclub
Summary: He’s detached from his reflection. His perception of himself is so skewed to the point where he can't associate himself with his physical body. Always withdrawn from the boy in the mirror. Always scrutinizing the imperfect characteristics of his face.





	backyard full of dying flowers

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CwsQsiA8zQk) lovely song. it has nothing to do with the story but this fic is sewn together with pale pink flowers and champagne colored silk, and so is the song.
> 
> anyway i will add content warnings before each chapter as i usually do but its not really sad, just intense i guess. the outcome is p much wut u would expect from someone who writes while having bdd rip
> 
>  **sidenotes:**  
>  \+ i paired seok w wonwoo bc no matter how many times i thought abt this story with a bunch of diff ppl. i always came back to wonwoo. possibly bc they match aesthetically to me but also bc i find wonwoos personality to be of someone who would handle this well
> 
> ahhhh i just saw [these pics](https://8eht.tumblr.com/post/176424028293/incorrect7teen-shimmering) and they fit perfectly with the vibe im trying to write here and im nuttin uwus all over the place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **list of some cws in this chpt:**  
>  \+ some bits of dark humor, like joking about sui and w/e  
> \+ implied bdd. lots of distortion of himself and his appearance  
> \+ very explicit descriptions of a lil self-loving if u get wut im saying ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> but pls its a camboy au wut do u except  
> \+ ment of sexual degradation and humiliation. mostly as a kink. but it can kinda get gross even i will admit that  
> \+ some f bombs and lots of the c0ck word  
> \+ unbeta'd but i read over this like four times and will read it more bc im a lil bitch who needs to make sure everything is perfect

Tuesdays are always so panic attack inducing. It's Seokmin's busiest day of the week. He has a total of five classes; all ending before five in the evening. He is frequently mocked by his classmates, who are studying more practical subjects than they believe he is, about how easy it is to major in Music Theory. How he's overdramatic for constantly being stressed about it. That he never tries hard enough. Science majors? Mathematics majors? They have been given permission by an unspoken force to complain about their schoolwork, their professors. So Seokmin has no excuse, other than being lazy and brainless. He hates it. Hates it so, so, so much.

A flush is budding over his skin. Subtle, quiet. The natural color of his skin obscuring the intensity of his misery. The melanin inside his flesh protecting him once again from exposing his emotions to everyone around him. He wishes to never accidentally showcase his feelings to anyone. It's the only thing he fears more than the unpredictability of his future. The manifestation of broken security and hopelessness corrode all of the positivity he once had before entering college. The awareness of the impracticality of his degree seeps through his bones. An acid eating away the remnants of him that haven't yet been touched by pessimism. He knows his choice of major was a mistake. That following his heart and passions was a mistake. But he's in his Junior year and it's too late to go back now. To late to take everything back and start all over again. He's so, so, so desperate for it, though. To wake up someday and have it all be a dream. That it was actually the summer before he submitted his first application. But if he were to be honest with himself, he would admit that the thought of partaking in anything other than music shoves him into a depression deeper than anything else could.

School is hard. The pressure of succeeding in the future is even harder. He's losing himself in self-deprecation, but he drags himself along the pathway from the Language building to his dorm anyway, and continues life as it is. The cheerful ring of his phone's text tone woke him from his sulking, making him jump in surprise. He could have sworn he put his phone on vibrate before his classes. He momentarily considers if there's a point in answering whoever had sent him the text or not. He decides that there isn't one. So just like every single other aspect of being alive, he pushes it out of his mind and blissfully ignores any reminder of his life. It may be from Minghao. It's not like he has any other friends. It may be from his mom. But she's becoming as tired of him and he is with himself.  Either way, does it even matter?

The thud of his bookbag hitting the floor soothes him in some way. The sound signifies that the day has now passed and he can spend the rest of the evening alone in his room. No soul-sucking pressure from the responsibilities he deals with in class. No anxiety from thinking he's not living up to the expectations he has thrust onto his own shoulders. 

Seokmin drifts on top of a cloud of a billowy mattress topper and a flannel duvet. This has become his daily routine. Finishing up his classes. Napping the rest of the day away. Then waking himself up at two in the morning to write a ten page essay or skim the pages of his required readings. Save for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays though. Those are his scheduled streaming days. So he sets his alarm and indulges in a break from existence.

"Hey."

An airy voice and a hint of peach scented air are ghosts above the apple of his cheek. A sad attempt at swatting away whatever was disrupting his slumber has him realizing that the nuisance isn't resting on top of his sleep flushed face. It's annoyingly close and squatting beside his bed. It's really Seokmin's own fault he never locks his door, so he doesn't complain about it.

"Why don't you ever answer my texts?"

Seokmin rubs the sleepiness from his eyes and replies in a husky voice, "I didn't get it."

"You're fucking lying."

"What do you want?"

"You to stop being such shitass friend."

"I'm not a shitty friend," he whines. However, he knows that's a lie. He fails to text him constantly. Never keeps any of the promises he makes to him about hanging out. Only to message him in the middle of the night begging him for comfort, because he's unable to handle the heaviness of the world anymore. The most painful part of all of this is that Minghao is always there. Always willing to trade his own sleep and spare time for him. He has no qualms in rising from his own bed and sneaking into Seokmin's dorm room during any hour of the night to gift him with hummed words of consolation and hope. He's so ashamed by his inadequacy as a friend, but Minghao never minds.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thanks."

"Of course," he huffs and smiles. He's so pretty and sweet, and lacking the halo he so surely deserves, " anyway. I'm going to let you go do your thing. It's about that time, I guess. I'll stop in on the live when I'm done with my homework."

"No, no, no. Don't worry about it. It's fine. Please, you really don't have to."

"But I love watching you."

With rosy cheeks from Minghao's appreciation, he's incapable of stopping the smile that blossoms on his face. He shoos his best friend away. And with a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, he leaves Seokmin alone to prep himself for the stream.

 

* * *

 

A backward snapback melts onto this head. His dark grey hair is now hidden beneath the hat, exposing his forehead. It fits loosely on his scalp, all in hopes of preventing his ears from bending forward from the weight of the cap. His ears are already too big. He doesn't want to emphasize their size. It's one of the countless painfully obvious flaws in his appearance. He’s detached from his reflection. His perception of himself is so skewed to the point where he can't associate himself with his physical body. Always withdrawn from the boy in the mirror. Always scrutinizing the imperfect characteristics of his face. The features that are too big. The features that are too small.

He's nothing but bony knuckles and careful fingertips. The scent of peonies and garden vines disguise the suffocating air of self-hatred that's clouding the bathroom. Fingers of a ghost infect of all the disgusting parts of his face with the silky moisturizer. A base for the golden beige-tinted crème he pats into his skin, velvety and heavy in coverage. A blanket of courage to camouflage all of his ugly blemishes and leaving him with a dewy and luminous finish. Fabricating an illusion of a boy who still feels alive; one with boyish charms and is overflowing with dreams and fearlessness. Rather than a kid who's barely living, tightly fastened inside a world of lack of sleep and hypersexuality and instability. Unsure if he'll ever be able to break away from the imprisonment he built to hide inside. Deliberately inflicting this painful confinement onto himself. He's unfamiliar with happiness and he's terrified to have to endure a life where it exists. It's so unknown to him. He wouldn't know how to manage an emotion like that.

He wraps himself inside a white t-shirt. Stitched from one hundred percent cotton and an overvalued price tag. Fraying at the end of the left armhole. The logo of his university is printed in black, all on display for hungry eyes. He has been warned to not give away any details about the personal aspects of his life. Minghao is cautious, overly so. He is paranoid even. About the men who ogle at them from their computer screens. Repulsive eyes gawking every inch of their bodies, making their skin crawl. Maggots defiling their flesh and inducing violent nausea. Tearing apart the tissue and fat. With their mouths agape, entranced by the pornographic exhibition in front of them. Depravity driving the men to only value their bodies; lessening them into insignificant objects for their gratification only. Men who, inside their minds, claim ownership of the most private parts of them. Their minds, their youth, and all the pleasure points within their skin.

Lastly, he hastily throws on a pair of black Adidas sweatpants, with white stripes vertically on both legs that make him seem thinner. They fit so beautifully on his body. Hugging the most sensual parts of him so tightly. It's as though it is naturally a part of his skin. Making him feel so erotic and arousing, even before turning on his camera. He knows what pieces of him men love the most. What they crave to see him in before he undresses. He's ugly, disgusting. His worth depends only on the intensity of violation and dehumanization they can brutalize him with. That's what they tell him, but he already knew that far before he began camming. He's doubtful he's even able to get off to anything else. Being engulfed inside the deterioration of his purity feeds his self-loathing. The haze of lust and pleasure offers a solace from the plights of his reality.

He sighs, giving himself one last look in the mirror before the clock stops at 6 o'clock. He sits on his bottom, scooting towards the lowest drawer of his desk. Amidst phone chargers and a microphone, the drawer hides a camcorder. An incredibly expensive one at that. Almost six thousand dollars worth of interchangeable lens mounts, a magnesium alloy body, and confidence. He's not rich. Not in any sense of the word. But he's desperate. Forever desperate to be the perfect boy. The only way of achieving this dream is by humiliating himself in front of the highest quality camera. His nonstop horniness and his starvation for attention manipulated him into using his university loans on his camera and microphone. He'll pay it all off with the money he makes camming, he repeated to himself. Thoughts stuffed with uncertainty were a fire inside his mind as he clicked on the  _checkout_ button on his laptop screen. Repeating it, repeating it, repeating it. Until he believed it.

The day he told Minghao about his newfound self-employment, he was beyond happy to tell his friend about it. Minghao has been camming for roughly a year and has suggested it to Seokmin quite a few times in the past. However, he ended up holding his embarrassment inside until he left Minghao's room. Standing in the hallway alone, he was overtaken by gross sobs. Minghao cruelly mocked his poor judgment. Laughing about the money he wasted. But perhaps he wasn't cruel or mocking at all. Because in truth, Seokmin is overly sensitive. He mistakes any sort of criticism as aggression. And it hurts him. So, so, so badly.

"You really spent fucking 6 grand so you can show your asshole to a bunch of old creepy fucks? Holy shit, man."

"If I'm going to do this, I need do the best I can, okay?"

"I use my fucking potato webcam. And I can still bank around 300 dollars in _just_ an hour. You don't need any of this shit."

"But I want it."

Minghao doesn't understand. And little does he know, Seokmin has an entire WikiHow article, written on the most painful ways to kill yourself and ways to achieve them, memorized word for word _._  And he's not afraid to use it the information he's compiled. The one thing keeping him alive is the hope that he'll finally find perfection in some way, someday. He thought this was how he was going to achieve it. By giving his body a reason to be alive, a reason to be desired and be beautiful.

Minghao wouldn't ever understand. He is gorgeous. His aura is as sharp as a razer and as powerful as a king. His beauty captures the hearts of boys their age. Boys who are twenty and in college and not tied down by life; and anxious for one night stands that lead to passionate romances. His intense eyes are sharp but soft. His admiration for art and history is genuine and fierce. Without even coming off as pretentious. Without seeming too cool for everyone else. He keeps a gigantic heart and a strong personality inside such a small frame. He dreams of using his money, his camming money, on plane tickets to grandiose museums such as Musée du Louvre and Musei Vaticani. He's a complete puzzle. And a very pretty one. Because while his blunt beauty controls one half of his life, the other half uses his cuteness to pump the cocks of old men. Married men with grandchildren, men in positions of power over the state, and even his own professors. With their gross fetishes and perversions. His youthful body and childish face; his easily feigned naiveté. He uses it all to his advantage on screen. So perfect for selling his body to those who get off on his pouts and deceitful confusion and tears. Pretending during each live show that this is his first time ever slipping his fingers into himself. Playing the part of an innocent little virgin who cries with every thrust, feeling dirty and impure from the crude sounds of insertion. From his own moans and whimpers. From the overwhelming sensation of stimulation. He's an actor starring in his own life and has perfected the art.

Minghao is perfection. Seokmin loves him so much. Is so happy for him and loves being his friend. His only friend. He's the closest thing to perfect Seokmin will ever reach. And he's so, so, so overjoyed that out of all the people in the world, Minghao is the one who made a home in Seokmin's heart. He puts up with him. Spends nights pressed against him.  With interlaced fingers, gentle and caring. Kisses that are a little too intimate. Touches that go a little too far. But no matter all of the mistakes and accidents they make, it's all so magical each time. The only time Seokmin feels safe and cherished is when Minghao's inside of him. It's only then that he allows himself to lie still and open and loved. Hopefully, someday he can find that elsewhere. With someone who doesn't have to exhaust himself to make Seokmin happy. Minghao is so special that way. Putting him above all else, even higher than himself. He knows he doesn't deserve the taste of Minghao's shoulders and collarbones and the feeling of his loving pets and caresses. He never will.

 

* * *

 

It's 6:14. He's running late on purpose. It invokes such violent and outraged words from his viewers and that helps drive his arousal. Setting the atmosphere for his show. Making it hard to resist himself. He sits on the once shiny hardwood, now discolored and faded from years and years of holding the presence of university students and their stress. He lays his camcorder on a pile of academic textbooks in lieu of a tripod. Within his checklist of _to-buy_  items for his new job, in order from most important to least, an actual professional tripod fell in last place. He figured his visual and audio quality was far more essential than a glorified nightstand. He licks his bottom lip one more time before settling himself into a comfortable position and ensures that his face down to his waist is clearly shown on the flip screen. His sigh is shakey as he switches on his camera. From nervousness and excitement as to what's about to come. He inserts the continuous power solution and the HDMI cable. The bundle of wires supply life into his devices, amplifying the performance of the heart of his piteous existence. The wire and chords, the capillaries and pulmonary veins. All flowing sweet, sweet validation and attention throughout his entire body and his camera. The wild circulation of desperation evolves into something more beautiful with every cycle it takes and he becomes closer and closer to finally reaching worthiness.

He's live. He masquerades himself as a bored boy. Waiting for a reasonable amount of viewers before showing off. He acts coy and slowly strips off his clothes. Each item falling to the floor alongside his dignity. His virtue is much like a faint film of stardust littering his skin and as time goes on, the glitter blows away more and more. Eventually, it's going to run out, and then what will happen to him next? And does it even matter?

Seokmin clears his throat. Tells an impatient viewer he has to wait, but that he's willing to tease a little in the meantime. Even talk a bit too, if that's what he wants. Sometimes the men who routinely follow his livestream schedule are just lonely, and while in the midst of dropping encouraging and lovely remarks about his body and his voice and his face, also just sort of chat with him. About their new promotions at their office job, their son's university graduation, a new recipe they have recently learned and are going to try it out later. Those viewers are his favorite. While degradation and shame feed the monster inside of him, the beast who has replaced his soul a long time ago and filled every inch of his body with the venom of a nasty fetish, the sweet talking loners are special to him. Because within the darkness there is a narrow keyhole, allowing a glimmer of light to shine through him, amongst the shadows of his illness. A secret place for those who cherish him, admire him.  _Your mouth looks so beautiful wrapped around your fingers. Such a pretty cock on such a pretty, pretty, pretty boy. You make the sweetest sounds. Look at you taking it so well for me._ Of course, it's not just for them. But that's what makes camboys so successful. The delusion they present to these men makes them believe they are their one and only. That they alone own the boys, and that the filthy show they put on is solely for them. Seokmin is so, so, so good at this. Reacting to every praise and every ridicule. With his body, with his words.

He tilts his head to the side, pushing his plump bottom lip into a pout. Lightly rubbing himself over his sweats. Rolling his eyes at the massive amounts of lewd comments being shot his way. Playfully, of course. Afterall, he counts on their adoration to pay his bills and wouldn't dare upset them.

He's getting lost inside a dreamland of small pleasurable sensations on his cock. With a gentle hand, he inches even further downwards until his balls are perfectly settled into his palm. With a harsh squeeze over his sweats, he sighs. The far too light gratification is urging him to remove all of the layers that are impeding him from the intense euphoria he knows he'll be blessed with shortly. But he can't just yet. One of the fun parts of camming is egging his viewers on. Teasing them by peeling away each item painfully slow.

He's resting on his butt, sitting horizontally in front of the camera. His top half propped up by an arm. His head resting against a shoulder. He's bare on top, other than his hat. He's playing with the waistband of his sweatpants, letting a taste of his underwear show before pulling the pants down completely. He is aching and hard inside of his briefs, rubbing up and down the length of himself. He may hate himself and his appearance, but anyone, even himself, could appreciate this particular section of him. His dick, ass, and thighs. His most irresistible selling points. It's been repeated to him quite a few times since he's been of age. He can't disagree either. It's so obvious as he strokes himself through his underwear, how beautiful and thick it is sitting on his hip. How the release of precum besmirches the light grey fabric that keeps him hidden, turning it dark and hot. Minghao praises him for it always. He tells him it makes his mouth water. That he gets so, so, so desperate for it to be inside of his mouth any time he thinks about it. And that's what Seokmin is thinking about as he pulls his briefs down, causing it to spring free and fall against his flat tummy.

He pauses, taking his time to read the active chatbox. Making sure he doesn't miss any specific requests from high paying clients. However, it's mostly a repetitive mess of inelegant typing and lustful remarks about his body. Nothing he shouldn't ignore.

Now, he's in nothing but his black vans and socks pulled to his calves. He situates himself so he's facing the recorder, with his legs spread crudely apart. He makes sure everything is exposed and open. He fixes himself so his face, torso, cock, and thighs are on full view inside the frame. He even sits in such a way where they can get a peek of his socks and sneakers to add a certain cutesy look to himself. Once he settles, he plays with his dick for a short moment before grabbing the flesh colored dildo from behind him. He gathers a noticeable amount of saliva in his mouth and shows off his tongue. He spits on the head of the dildo, then takes the weight of it into his mouth. Seokmin squeezes his thumb between his palm to prepare himself from the inevitable gags the toy will bring about after being shoved far inside his airway. He gags himself once, twice, and three times before pulling it out from his sore walls and rubs the crest of it against his tiny hole. Just to rub the ring of muscle before taking it down his throat again.

He sets it aside for now. Hyperfocusing on the chat feature while sucking on his index and middle finger. Slicking it up with spit in preparation for fingering himself. His cheeks are such a lovely shade of pink and his lips are pretty and swollen from the friction of the dildo. He sighs out a small moan at all of the dirty words. They feed his eagerness. And Seokmin's so, so eager and so, so impatient. Fingers drawing little circles on and around his entrance. Mesmerizing every eye that eats up the delicious movements of his fingers. The obscene sound of his hand slapping against his opening is jarring, the noise of bare skin against skin and the wetness from spit defiles the quiet room. He slides his fingers inside his pink, wet mouth one more time. He exhales, struggling to pretend he's not nearly as excited as he really is to finally be filled at least a little. His middle finger breaking through the impossibly tight hole. Sinking in, but only until his knuckle is inside. Relishing in the discomfort that comes with such an intrusion. It's almost painful. He's desperate for pain. For intense burning and stretching and lack of care for his threshold and how much he can handle. He pushes it in fully. Pulling it back out to join it with his pointer. Taking no time at all before thrusting them in. His trembling thighs violently close together with a pitiful cry, his fingers still deep and angry inside of him. His eyelashes collect tears. Making his eyes look so glossy and damp and pretty. The pain is so, so gratifying. The need for more replaces his wish to remain unbothered for the show. He's so empty. Every inch of skin and every single pore is drowning in a need so intense he wants to sob. He's so empty and needs his fingers and the approval from all watching to overflow him with fullness. He steadies his legs, slowly spreading them again. Making sure he's wide and open and put on display like an animal being auctioned off to the highest bidder. Just to be sent to the butcher and then slaughtered and feasted upon for dinner.

Seokmin pulls his fingers out. Moans around them as he tastes himself. They slide in so much easier this time. The pain dulling and his hunger growing. He works himself for a bit, pulling out just beneath the knuckle before fucking the rest deep into himself again. After three are inside, his hips are bucking up, burying them as far as the can go. But it's not nearly enough anymore. He rides his fingers for a little while longer. With his other hand loosely stroking his dick and his back forming a bruise from the metal bed frame he's leaning against, the sole thing keeping him mindful of his situation. The hand using his cock grabs for the dildo again. He empties himself and he's shaking all over. The popping sound from the bottle of lube is almost as satisfying as the cherry aroma floating in the air around him. He slicks the toy all over with the lube, soaking it and all of its enormous glory. He takes his time massaging the oil into his entrance. Closing his eyes as his presses the tip to his hole. His sneakers flat on the ground in front of him and his hat crooked on his head. Only one third enters before he scrunches his face. The stretch is too much and he is just so, so, so tight always. It goes on for a few minutes. Pushing it in a little more after each time he removes it fully. He's unable to stick it inside of him in its entirety. It's too big. Instead, he shoves it as deep as his body will allow.

He's gentle with his movements at first. Moving it in slow, shallow thrusts until pools of warmth seep from his insides onto his belly. Turning him red to match the flush on his face and head of his cock. He grabs the back of one knee and tries to match it with the other one, hiking them up to his chest to show off every time his hole swallows the toy. There is no hint of pain anymore and he's losing all sense of his reality. He melts into a mess all over the hardwood and no longer exists to anyone or anything. He's lost inside the filthy squelching of the dildo abusing his wet hole; the overwhelming tension in his stomach that's causing his eyes to roll back into his skull. Not caring anymore how he looks and only embracing the raw, hot pleasure. Giving himself permission to lie on his side. His ass full view for everyone to see. He keeps his knee held in the air, but it's increasingly getting more difficult to keep any composure. Slapping and grabbing his own ass until it stings so severely he can't brush his fingertips over it without whimpering. He tries to tame his moans, but it's impossible because he is so, so, so, so close. His wrist is so tired, but he's starving for this feeling so much that it's a frivolous thought in his mind. He lubes his cock up with his precum, jerking himself until his legs are shaking pathetically. Shivering from deep within every part of his body. Whining like a pornstar through a bitten lip as he dirties himself up to his chest. Seokmin lies still. Panting and falling back to the real world where he fucks himself in front of many. He wishes to doze off and sleep the aftershock away. He turns into such a sleepy baby boy once he comes. He always does. Unfortunately, he doesn't have that privilege at the moment.

He's clumsy when he climbs to his knees to show off the masterpiece he painted all over his skin. Bringing some up to his mouth, swishing it around until its a milky mess of bubbly come and saliva. He proudly shows off his tongue before he swallows himself and pouts cutely for the camera. Answers the last of the comments or questions before finally closing himself back up for the night.

 

* * *

 

Today is the first time in weeks when Seokmin allowed himself to wake up at an acceptable hour. He has no assignments due for once and it is absolutely necessary for his mental health's sake. Major depression is hell on its own, but mix it with lack of sleep and it's catastrophic to anyone's wellbeing. Even so, he still woke up earlier than needed. He supposes he should take advantage of his fragment of free time and use it for a bit of self-care. Which is showering and grabbing a hot cup of plain black coffee. It's not much, but when someone is continually in a dark, ugly place even simple daily tasks are unobtainable.

He sits in the coffee shop by himself. Plugging in his earbuds to drown out the sickening cheerful chatter from the other students around him. Students who are in love with their college years. Who are happy and have their lives together. Unafraid of anything the world has to offer. Seokmin shouldn't feel hatred for them for that, but he can't push down the anger that's oozing up his throat. Acid burning the insides with jealousy and animosity. He wishes he could be like those kids. Kids like Minghao. But Seokmin wasn't built to be deserving of happiness.

He flips open his laptop. Checking all three email accounts. His student, his personal, and the one he uses for his camming. Rarely does he ever bother opening the love letters from the men who are under false belief he would ever be anything more than a boy on a computer screen. Although, this morning he felt like vomiting butterflies. From both anxiety and excitement. It's from someone using an email account from his university. His eyelids flutter shut as he clicks on the message. Too nervous to face it just yet.  

> **From:** wonje@independence.edu
> 
> **Title:** Yo, I think we go to the same school?
> 
> **Text:** Hey! This is maybe really weird, but I noticed you were wearing an IU shirt. Are you by any chance a student? I'm only curious because I'm a grad student studying there. It would be really cool if so. You don't have to reply. I realize this may come off really crazy and I don't want to push you into any uncomfortable situations. I just thought I would give it a shot.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for wasting your time reading this if you've gotten this far. 
> 
> Have an awesome day!

He's suddenly overpowered by every emotion capable to humankind. His hands are trembling, but he doesn't realize they are. He's so, so, so mortified. His stomach aches of intense shame and self-hate. A real life person watches him. A real life person who shares a campus with him. Seokmin is pushing hot tears back, hoping to delay them from falling. Alongside the tinge of excitement inside of his pants. He needs to purge any thoughts of hopefulness. He's too disgusting to ever have a chance with anyone. A disgusting whore whose only worth is being used by strangers in trashy dive bars and being used by himself for money. He has nothing to offer to anyone. Especially not someone compelled enough to aim for a life beyond a bachelor's degree. He shouldn't dare give himself a chance to feel a sense of hope. He will at least protect himself from that when it all undoubtedly turns into a nightmare.

His mind wonders around the email though. Gutting it and picking it apart. Searching for any small indication of this man's true intentions. What motivated him to reach out to him? Seems silly to put effort into a slut with a camcorder. Perhaps it was a joke. Someone found out about his part-time job. Only to have Seokmin meet up with him and be humiliated and belittled. He plays around on his computer. A sad attempt to distract his mind from the email. But his thoughts of it aren't running away. It won't. Not until he answers and receives a sufficient reply. But before he acts on anything, he pulls up different social media accounts. Hoping to find anything about anyone with those letters in their name, in the order of the placement in the address. After he ultimately fails, he gives up and goes back to the tab that holds a dangerous game of Russian Roulette. Perhaps this guy is his soulmate. Perhaps he's a serial killer. Does he really lose either way, though? If he is only out for blood or his organs, at least he never has to worry about paying back any of his student loans.

It feels as though an hour has passed since he stumbled upon the email. In fact, it actually has. He has been sitting still; eyes following his fingers as they twirl around one another. Neglecting his coffee and the fleeting time. Still, his class begins in ten minutes and if he doesn't want to spend the period fixating over this, a decision needs to be made. Futile breathing exercises and a miserable pep talk encourages him to click the reply button. Although it wasn't so much his techniques that urged him on but his dangerous habit of impulsiveness instead. The clock on his laptop is becoming more and more intimidating with each minute. His mind goes blank, but he dumbly arranges some words together and kind of forms a few proper sentences. 

> **To:** wonje@independence.edu
> 
> **Title:** Re: Yo, I think we go to the same school?
> 
> **Text:** Hey, I just got your message. Yeah, I'm a junior undergrad. Weird that you go here too.
> 
> Also, I didn't waste my time.


End file.
